So I’m awake, watching the minutes tick by on my bedside Beatles clock that sings “Here Comes the Sun” when the alarm goes off. I want to pass my time thinking about the person I haven’t once stopped thinking about since I saw her in the mall, but considering my current sleeping situation, that’s not such a good idea. Instead, I think about the person I usually think about before I fall asleep: my dad.
I think about how I’d do anything to have him back, especially now that I’m starting high school. He used to tell me stories about how much fun he’d had at Gila High and how I was going to love it, too. I was even going to join the club he started way back in the day: Future Scientists of America Club. I try to stop myself, but now I’m remembering the accident and the way his car looked like a crushed Coke can, then the funeral, then coming home and knowing he’d never be here again. I wish I could remember him without remembering any of that.
I need to focus on something else, so I start thinking about how the official start of high school is just forty-five hours away and that I have a lot of work to do. Since my encounter with the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick, I know it’s going to take a lot more than new clothes and makeup to leave my nerdy self behind. I quietly take out my notepad and, by the light of the glowing faces of Paul, John, Ringo, and George, I make some changes to my to-do list. I cross out Change glow-in-the-dark stars, add Buy scented lotion, and draw a heavy, urgent circle around Practice Spanish daily.
*
I make it through the night on two hours of restless sleep, and in the morning, after Marisol and Sarah are gone, Kate and I have some breakfast while we wait for her sister Jenn to pick her up.
In between bites, Kate lectures me on the expected behavior of high school girls. “I mean, Abbey, boys aren’t going to like you if you don’t like yourself. You have to, you know, put some effort into how you look, or you’re going to end up going to your first formal with a group of other lame-ass girls who couldn’t get dates, or worse, you won’t get to go at all.”
I try to act interested, but I’m not convinced she can know so much about a place she has never been. Jenn, on the other hand, is a much more reliable source. That’s why when she talks, we all listen.
Jenn’s going to be a senior at Gila High, and even though she usually ignores us or calls us names like the Freak Pack and Dorks R Us, she sometimes tosses out little morsels of highly desirable high school info. Naturally, I keep a list of these secrets in my notebook. They’re mostly about which teachers to avoid (Schwartz and Ponsi), how to sneak off campus (like I would ever do that), and how the fastest snack-bar line is always run by the oldest lunch lady, but I’ll take whatever I can get.
Jenn arrives and waits for Kate to polish off her cereal.
I get up for more cereal and can feel Jenn’s eyes follow me as I cross the kitchen. I sit down again, fold my long legs in my chair like a contortionist because it’s how I’m most comfortable, chew my Cheerios, and wait for Jenn’s always-uplifting commentary on my body, as if I need more reasons to feel self-conscious.
“Damn, girl,” she says, “I’m pretty sure your mom had an affair with Big Bird about fifteen years ago. Have you asked her about that yet? Seriously. Legs for days? More like legs for months.”
I just roll my eyes and take another bite of cereal.
“Speaking of which, you guys are going to try out for basketball, right?” Jenn says, as she grabs another handful of Os from the box. “I mean, you kind of have to. Between the two of you, the janitors won’t need a ladder to get the spiderwebs out of the rafters.”
Kate and I have never discussed trying out for any sports, so I don’t really acknowledge Jenn’s suggestion/put down.
But then Kate shrugs and says, “We’re going to wait and see.”
“Uh, yeah. We’re not sure,” I say, playing along and successfully hiding my heart attack.
“Come on,” Jenn says, “are you kidding me? You two are, like, bred for hoops.” Then she asks, “Dude, you’re not going to bail on tryouts just because of all the lezzies on the team, are you?”
This time Kate has nothing to say, and therefore, neither do I. Though, now I’m feeling something I haven’t yet felt when the topic of going to high school has come up: I’m a little excited. But Jenn saying “lezzies” in my kitchen also makes my left eyelid start to twitch. I grab a lock of hair to twirl and look down the hall to make sure my mom is still in the bathroom. This is not a conversation I want her to walk in on.
“I mean, you guys have heard about them, right?” Jenn asks, looking right at me.
Kate glances over at me, too, and raises her eyebrows. I’m glad to see she’s equally shocked. “Of course we knew,” she says, “and by the way, that is so gross. But we’re just not sure if we want to try out. So lay off.”
“Yeah. We’re just not sure if we want to try out,” I say like a parrot, but in my head all I can think is that maybe I’m not going to be the only girl at Gila who, maybe, likes girls.
*
Later on that night, to honor our last moments of summer break, Kate and I go to the movies. We choose a comedy instead of our usual slasher films because I think we’re both feeling anxious enough. And even though Jack Black’s performance makes us laugh, we’re both pretty quiet, as we sit on the warm cement wall in front of Desert Cinemas waiting for my mom to pick us up. I don’t know what’s on Kate’s mind, but there’s only one thing on mine.
Then Kate turns to me with an ugly look on her face (like someone has just totally ripped a fart, which I haven’t) and says, “Abbey, can you believe that stuff Jenn told us about the girls’ basketball team? I mean, do you think it’s true?”
My hands start to sweat and my voice seems a million miles away. “I don’t know. Why?”
“Well, they better stay the hell away from us. That’s just sick and wrong.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly but can’t help but wonder what makes Kate so sure those girls would like her. I mean, yes, she’s really pretty, but is she the kind of pretty that they’ll like? Am I the kind of pretty that they’ll like?
After that, we don’t say anything for a few minutes. I listen to the crickets, and I think about what it would be like to see the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick in the hall at Gila. Will she remember me? Will she say hi? Or will she just walk by, laughing with her friends, and be untouchable like the goddess she is? Then I almost laugh, because in my little fantasy, she is wearing her cute uniform, which I know is ridiculous, but it’s all I have.
“Earth to Abbey.” Kate’s voice slaps me back to the wall in front of the theater and out of the crowded hallway where my chance meeting with the Chick was about to take place.
“What?” I snap, and her eyes kind of bug out at me in shock, so I quickly take it back. “Sorry, I’m just tired. What’s up?”
“I have another rule for our list.”
“Okay.” I take out my handy-dandy notepad and pen.
“Rule number twenty-two? Twenty-three?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Right, twenty-four. Are you writing this down?”
“No, I’m just holding this pen in my hand for fun.”
“Okay, rule number twenty-four—no matter how much taller we grow, we will never try out for basketball or be friends with those you-know-who girls.”
My hand wants to refuse to write it down, but she’s watching me, so I force the letters onto the page.
When I’m finished, she sticks her pinky out. “This will absolutely be our last pinky swear.”
At this exact moment, even though it has always been as strong as the cement wall we are sitting on, I feel our friendship crack down the middle. I don’t know if it can ever be fixed, but I do know I have been right not to tell her about the feelings I have for the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick. And I know that the one friend I thought could help me through whatever this is, might be the last person I should ever tell.
Chapter Three
“Shut up, Abbey. The weather report is
on.”
I haven’t actually spoken since Kate told me to shut up ten minutes ago when her favorite song came on the radio, so I continue to stay silent even though I feel like screaming at her for making me arrive at her house an extra hour early. But she doesn’t care that I had to get up at 5:00 in the morning to get here by 6:30 so we can start walking to Gila by 7:00 because school starts at 7:45.
Now it’s 7:05 and she’s still doing her hair. We could very possibly be late for our first day at Gila. It’s times like this that I wish I had puked on someone else in the third grade.
“Oh my God, Abbey, look at the humidity level. Damn monsoons,” Kate says, as she throws down her straightener. “Do you know what this means?”
All I know is we’re going to be late if she doesn’t get a move on.
“Now I have to rewash my hair and wear it curly because there’s no way it’s going to stay straight in this stupid weather.” She storms off and slams the bathroom door.
“What’s up her butt?” Jenn asks, as she gathers her bag and car keys.
“Humidity,” I say and look at my watch again.
“Good luck with that, Crappy Brooks. See you at school.”
*
Thanks to her mom giving us a ride, Kate and I cross through the gate of Gila’s barbed-wire fence at exactly 7:30, leaving us only fifteen minutes before the first bell. When I played this first-day-of-school scenario in my mind last night before I fell asleep, I had plenty of leftover time to find all of my classes, locate my locker, practice spinning in its combination, and go pee before first period (Jenn advised us to avoid using the restrooms after break, when they usually get the most use). Now I’ll be lucky to get to first period before the tardy bell.
Sarah and Marisol are loyally waiting for us on the front steps, inseparably bound with the headphones from the iPod. When we all meet up, we laugh hysterically for no reason like we just drank iced double-shot lattes for breakfast. Marisol, Sarah, and Kate look like an ad for a new high school sitcom. Kate made me wear khaki capris instead of shorts, and a white button-down short-sleeve shirt instead of a T-shirt, but I finally see how I kind of look like I should be on the deck of a boat. “Ahoy, mates!” I say as a joke, but no one notices.
“Ay Dios, do you see all the sexy boys?” Marisol whispers. “Voy a hacer pipí.”
“Stop it, Mari.” Sarah bites her hand and squeals. “You’re making me have to pipí, too.”
Kate looks around and seems to be in a mixed state of euphoria and anticipation. It’s like she’s an elite athlete and this is the Olympics. I can tell she fully expects to win gold.
Meanwhile, I’m secretly scanning the crowds for the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick or any of the you-know-who girls, but I can’t find her and don’t know what the heck the others look like. I mean, how do you tell? Do they wear a certain color like the gang members? Is there a secret handshake? I see the Populars, Goths, Punks, Stoners, Pseudohippies, Hicks, Drama Geeks, Band Freaks, Emos, Scene Kids, Jocks, Homies, Preps, Preppy Punks, Gleeks, Wannabies, Realbies, Hacky Sackers, and every other group Jenn has told us about, but not one of these cliques appear to be the one I’d like to see myself being a part of.
We join a long line and quickly find ourselves flanked by upperclassmen dressed in pajama bottoms, flip flops, and T-shirts with not-so-subtle allusions to sex and drugs that the teachers probably won’t get. It seems, by the expressions on their faces, this older crowd finds everything irritating and boring, not exciting like us. So, to fit in, we stop squealing and shuffle grimly along like orange-jumpered, shackled prisoners.
At 7:43 I finally reach the front of the line to receive my locker assignment and my first-semester schedule. But instead of listing a class in my Period One slot, it says See Counselor. I show Kate, who already has her schedule and is comparing it with Marisol’s and Sarah’s, but she just shrugs like it’s no biggie.
“God, Abbey, you’re already in trouble?” Sarah teases. “Nice.”
“Show me,” Marisol says and grabs my schedule. “Chíngale! Sucks to be you.”
“But I’m supposed to have Algebra 2.” I grab my schedule from Marisol and flip it over. “Where is my Algebra 2?”
“At least we all have PE together,” Sarah says.
Then the bell rings and my friends disappear down the hall like we’re playing hide-and-go-seek and I’m it. Now I’m alone.
Someone with a kind heart has posted directional signs all over the walls to help the new kids like me, but then some jerk turned all the arrows down and wrote Go to hell, Freshmen on them. This explains how I nearly walk into the boys’ bathroom, running into Jake Simpson with my giant size-ten feet. Jake Simpson, Mr. “I’m So Cool I Go to Concerts on School Nights,” is a year older than me, which is why we have never spoken before now.
I cover my face quickly and back up into the hall, as soon as I realize where I am. “Oh my God,” I say too loudly. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all good. I’m decent.” Then he laughs, but not at me, which is nice of him. “Where are you trying to go? I mean, I’m guessing you didn’t mean to walk in here. It’s Abbey, right?”
“Yeah, I’m Abbey Brooks.” I show him my schedule like a lost tourist. “I’m supposed to go to the counselor’s office,” I say then look over my shoulder, hoping for some reason that Kate might walk by and see me talking to him.
He pushes a lock of his curly black hair behind his ear. “Cool, I’m going there, too. Come on. I’ll take you on your first official high school field trip.”
The hallway is clear and we walk side by side without having to avoid all the short people in our way. And when I talk to him, it’s at eye level. This is new for me, since the eye level of most boys in eighth grade was right at my barely there breasts.
We arrive at the office and he opens the door for me. And for the first time ever, I feel kind of girlie. I decide high school boys might be slightly more evolved, not like the middle school boys who used to follow me around making Chewbacca sounds.
Other students are already in line for the counselors and are nonchalantly leaning against the wall like they’re waiting for a bus, so I join them, trying to look just as cool and aloof. Then I turn to say, “Sure is crowded in here,” or something equally dumb, but Jake is already talking to some friends in the front of the line. I pick at my cuticles instead.
Thirty minutes into first period and the line outside the counselor’s office is ten students longer and we haven’t moved an inch. I’ve already memorized the inspirational poster (Teamwork Gets the Job Done), the suicide hotline number (800-WE-SAVE-U), and counted the pieces of gum stuck to the bottom of the principal’s bulletin board (three pink, five yellow, ten white, fifteen gray). To make matters worse, I still have to pee. The smart thing to do would be to keep my mouth shut, but instead I turn to Jake, who is now standing next to me, and say, “Cool shoes.”
What follows is a brief conversation about his flame-covered Converse. And when that topic runs its course, I ask, “So, are we, like, going to get a first period at all?” I know I sound very geeky, but I have to know.
He laughs in a nice way again. “No worries, Abbey. Ms. Morvay’s hella nice. She’ll hook you up with whatever class you need.” The line starts to move finally and we scoot along the wall together. He makes me think it wouldn’t be so bad to have an older brother, and I find his tallness reassuring and comforting.
Then my name is called.
“See you around, Abbey,” he says, as I walk toward the open door of the counselor’s office.
“Okay, later,” I say and wave good-bye with stupid enthusiasm because talking to him made me nervous, which doesn’t really make sense considering my current crush situation on the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick. Do I think it would be cool to have a brother, or do I like the idea of having a boyfriend? God, what’s wrong with me?
I sit down opposite Ms. Morvay, grab a lock of my hair, and begin to twirl because now I am totally experiencing inner turmoi
l and could not care less about Algebra 2.
“So”—she leans back in her black leather office chair and takes a long drink of her coffee—“I suppose you would like something to do during first period besides smoke cigarettes in the girls’ bathroom.”
“Yes, please,” I say. Her humor is nice, but I still twirl and shake my leg like a spastic junky. I must look like a freak, but she’s probably used to freaks, being the counselor and all. “Seriously, though, am I going to have a first period? I was kind of hoping for early graduation.”
She types something into her computer and then looks at me again. “Didn’t you just get here?”
“Yes.” I don’t see her point.
She adjusts her black-rimmed glasses. “And you’re already hoping to leave early?”
“That’s the plan,” I say with confidence.
“Well, I bet that I’m not the first to say that you are very ambitious.”
I shrug. I haven’t actually told anyone about this plan and I am getting the feeling she thinks it’s a bad idea.
“Well, don’t worry. We’ll get you out of here as fast as we can.”
I watch her as she types and notice she’s prettier than I thought she would be. Her brown hair is cut short but styled in a fashionable, non-old-lady way, and her blue silk shirt and black suit jacket make her look professional, like how I imagine looking someday when I get a real job.
As she scrolls through what I guess is my official district file, she notes my impressive academic record. “No ‘Unsatisfactory’ behavior marks and perfect attendance every year”—then she pauses—“except second grade.” Then she scrolls a little farther and must see a note explaining my sudden absences and weekly therapy sessions. “Hmm…” is all she says. “So, Abbey, you’ll have to wait to take Algebra 2 until next semester because all of our algebra classes are full. But I can sign you up for an elective since you aren’t taking one. Which elective sounds fun to you?”
Freshman Year Page 3
